


It's Not About What We Deserve

by C_amara_deriee



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Guilt, In a way, Insecurities, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Panic Attack, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter doesn't curse, Peter has like no self worth, Self-Harm, Self-Worth Issues, Steve's trying but he's got social issues sometimes, Torture, it's adorable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-03-22 02:45:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13754613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C_amara_deriee/pseuds/C_amara_deriee
Summary: Essentially, Peter has a panic attack during a sparring session, the Tower gets invaded, and Steve and Natasha finally get a glimpse at the guilt Peter's been carrying with him. The Avengers suddenly find themselves surrounded by evidence of Peter's lack of self-worth, from pushing himself past the limit in training, to sacrificing himself without a second thought during battles.“What did you just say?” Tony repeats, darting around Peter to stand beside Natasha. “Did Steve just say you’re using us topunish yourself?”“That’s not, umm, that’s notexactlywhat he meant by-”“Are you,” Tony enunciates each individual word, “using us to punish yourself.”





	1. Chapter 1

“You’re done, Peter.”

Peter pants as he rises shakily to his feet. Natasha had taken him down for the fifth time in as many minutes. He pulls his shirt a little away from his chest to cool some of the sweat forming there.

“No, no. I’m good. Let’s go again.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. They’d been sparring on the mats in the communal gym for a few hours now. Peter had barely landed a punch on her, whereas he has bruises spanning his entire back and arms, a particularly colorful one on his chest throbbed in time with his heart. He’d begged Natasha to spar with him today, and he’ll be darned if he gave up after only a few hours.

“Let’s-” Peter’s voice cracks. He takes a deep breath and tilts his head to stretch, purposely ignoring the popping sounds as kinks roll out. “I’m fine. Let’s go again.”

There’s no way he’s going to go back into his bedroom. No way he’s going to just _sit_ _there_ and _twiddle his thumbs_ when he could be protecting innocent civilians. Even if that only means touching up on his Spidey-skills.

Natasha shoots him a look that could kill. Peter’s pretty sure she could, too. Somehow, she looks scarier standing off to the side of blue mats they’re sparring on, decked out in black workout sweats, than she ever does on the battlefield. Peter has a firm belief that the more skin she shows, the more likely someone is to die. Clint has assured him this is a good policy to have.

But Peter isn’t one to shy away from a challenge. He’s a brave, confident vigilante; he strikes fear into the hearts of all his enemies! (Peter purposely ignores the little voice in his head telling him he doesn’t even _reach_ the hearts of his enemies. He is fully aware of how short he is. Doesn’t mean he can’t dream.) But he can still face off against bad guys without the slightest waver in his voice; he’ll _demand_ Natasha keep sparring with him.

“Natasha, _please._ ”

Okay. So maybe ‘demand’ is too strong a word.

Natasha deadpans, and Peter prepares himself for a tongue lashing. But before Natasha can get a word out, Steve pipes up from where he’s been standing against the wall, watching Peter get his butt handed to him.

“Peter,” he reprimands softly, but firmly, in that way only Captain America is ever able to. “Stop it, son. You’ve trained enough for today.”

But Peter hadn’t. He could go _more._ If they’d just give him the chance, he’d prove it to them.

He composes his features and slaps a loopy grin on his face as he turns back to the most dangerous assassin he knows.

“Tasha. Taaaashaaa.” He frowns when she doesn’t so much as blink. “Come ooon. I’m fine! Look at me!” He flings his arms out in what he hopes presents as a carefree move. He can’t quite hide the wince when his jolted left shoulder twinges at the action. Oops. Maybe not the smartest move to get what he wants, if the scrutinizing looks from Cap and Black Widow are anything to go by.

Peter lowers his arms slowly. _Fine._ If they aren’t going to listen to what he says, he’ll just _show_ them instead. He spreads his stance and lunges at Natasha.

Only to find himself face down on the mat with said woman perched on top of him, her knee digging painfully into the middle of his back.

“Peter, котенок, stop fighting.” Her not-quite-bruising grip on his shoulder isn’t enough to stop his desperate wriggling. With little effort, she flips Peter around so his back is pressed into the floor and he has an unobstructed view of the serious expression on her face. “Stop. The fight is _over._ ”

No. Peter can’t let it be over. He _needs_ this. He _needs_ to be fighting. He _deserves_ this. Each hit is a reminder of a civilian he couldn’t save. Each ache afterwards represents the times he was too slow. The bruises are punishment for all his mistakes- for never being enough.

If he stops fighting, Steve and Natasha will force him to go rest. And if he rests he will see them all again. Countless faces, faces he’s responsible for, faces he’s failed. They cycle through on repeat behind closed lids every night, a reminder.

But he’s losing strength. His struggles become more haphazard and desperation makes him sloppy. His breathing is too fast, almost hyperventilation, but Natasha’s arms don’t move. He can’t so much as wiggle, and he kicks and claws but he can’t get away and she _isn’t letting him go_. He can feel his chest constrict as he fights Natasha, as he fights his _friend_ , with an animalistic desperation.

Natasha remains steadfast above him, and the weak hits his flailing arms land do nothing toward the way of moving her. He strains his neck away and flings his arms down instead, digging his fingers into the mat trying to drag himself away. He cries out when Natasha readjusts so that her knees trap his arms at his sides.

Eventually he falters, his shaking subsiding with little desperate noises, quiet sobs breaking through clenched lips. He notices an unfamiliar weight on his legs and sees at some point during his panic, Steve had come over to hold his legs down. Natasha had moved higher and forced her weight through hands she’d placed at the edges of his chest. Had they not been there, Peter had a feeling his slamming against the floor would have done a lot more damage than just the blackened shoulder bruises he can feel forming.

Natasha’s mouth is moving in what Peter thinks are probably supposed to be words, but he can’t hear a thing past the ringing in his ears.

Why won’t they just let him go? Why won’t they let him spar? Why don’t they think he’s capable? He needs these sparring sessions. He needs to train, get better, and if he gets bruised in the process, then great! They serve to remind him he can always do better. He rarely gets hurt fighting in the streets, he needs this.

Why do his lungs hurt so badly?

Peter watches Natasha’s head whip around frantically to tell Steve something that looks like “pre-they.” Steve nods in agreement, and Natasha turns back to face Peter. She brings her hand up and it takes Peter a second after it lands for the sharp sting to set in, before he realizes he’s just been slapped.

Peter sucks a stuttering breath in surprise and the pain in his lungs subsides some. Oh. Breathing. She’d been telling Steve he wasn’t breathing.

Natasha inspects him carefully for a moment before carefully climbing off him. Never taking her eyes off Peter’s, she takes a step towards Steve and touches his shoulder, silently telling him he can release the deadlock he still has on Peter’s legs.

Steve detangles himself slowly, cautious and ready to re-restrain if need be. Peter rolls away as soon as Steve’s fingers leave him and positions himself into a crouch a few feet away.

He gulps down frantic breaths and squints at the two of them with watery eyes. For many awkward moments, the only sound in the gym is Peter’s ragged breathing.

He winces when his vision is no longer eclipsed by spots of black and he can fully see the damage he’s just inflicted. He can see now how freaked out they are: can see the tension in Natasha’s body, her fingers that twitch occasionally, ready for action. Can see the worry in the hunch of Steve’s shoulders, not nearly as painful as the pity radiating from him.

Worse of all, he can see the red marks splattered across Steve’s arms, and the bruises forming on Natasha’s chin.

Figures that he’d only been able to hit Natasha when he _wasn’t_ trying.

 “Ha,” Peter chokes out a sound close to a laugh, “finally hit you, Tash!” He twists the corners of his mouth up trying to lighten the room, but he’s pretty sure it comes out as a grimace.

Natasha and Steve stay exactly where they are.

Somehow, his self-depreciating jokes don’t ease tensions in the slightest. Which sucks, because that’s pretty much Peter’s only move. But he’d just _attacked_ two Avengers-attacked his _friends_. Jokes aren’t going to fix this.

He watches Steve raise a hand towards him, fingers splayed, and Steve’s mouth opens-to reassure or reprimand, Peter doesn’t know. He stumbles back a step.

Steve freezes, seemingly reconsidering what he was about to say.

“Peter, you don’t need to-”

“I need this, Steve,” Peter cuts Steve off abruptly. His voice rings more hollow than he’d like, but he’s not sure he knows how to fix that. “Steve, I _need_ this. I’m out there all the time and I’m never,” Peter raises shaking hands and buries them in his hair, “I’m _never_ good enough!

“People get hurt out there all the time, on my watch! Sometimes I’m too slow, sometimes I’m too cocky and I miss something important, sometimes I just don’t, I don’t know _what_ I do wrong. But I can do better!” He pleads for Steve to understand.

It’s Natasha, though, who finds her words first.

“Peter, you have nothing to prove to us.”

Steve nods. “Nothing,” he affirms. “We know how capable you are already.” Steve looks more determined when he steps towards Peter this time. “We know how many people you’ve saved. How many people you save every day.”

But Peter shakes his head, his limp, sweaty hair flicking into his eyes, and staggers back another step away from an advancing Steve. “You guys don’t see it all.” He bites his lip, contemplating if he should even tell them about his mistakes, if they don’t already know. But no, they’re Avengers for gosh sake, they know.

“We see enough, Peter,” Natasha says forcefully.

“I punch the bad guys too hard sometimes,” he mumbles, ashamed. Please don’t make him drag this out, don’t make him say all his faults out loud.

Steve tilts his head and frowns. “So do I, sometimes. Does that make me a bad person?”

Peter chews the inside of his cheek. He sees Steve’s point, but he’s unwilling to concede to it. Steve does so, _so_ very much good, it must equal out for someone like him. It has to, Steve does enough good it will always equal out. But Peter…he only does little things. He stops petty crime, he doesn’t save the world. The tri-state area, maybe. The city, even, but never the world. Mistakes matter so much more when the good you do is so inconsequential, so forgettable.

Steve reaches out and Peter jolts when a warm hand clasps his shoulder. “Look, you can’t place all this pressure on yourself,” Steve admonishments. “You’re trying your best, and you’re in here with us all the time trying to improve.”

Natasha glides over to his other side and places her much more delicate, but no less firm, hand on Peter’s other shoulder.

“You’re a good person, Peter. It doesn’t matter that you’re not perfect.” Peter lets his eyes close for just a second, let’s himself revel in the feeling of a touch that’s not laden with the intent to hurt. It feels so safe. It makes him feel worthy of their concern, if only for the moment.

_No._

Peter steps out from under Steve and Natasha’s generous, too generous, too reassuring, hands. That’s exactly the problem! He _doesn’t_ deserve this! He hasn’t done anything to deserve their compassion. They aren’t seeing him clearly. They don’t understand, but Peter doesn’t have it in him to tell them why they’re wrong just yet.

“I, umm,” Peter stutters eloquently as he walks backwards towards the gym doors, “I’m going to go shower.” Peter can’t care less about sparring anymore. Escape is the only thing on his mind.

He accidentally runs into the edge of the exit door, hitting his back hard enough that he staggers and half turns around. Now facing away from the two avengers still standing by the edge of the mat, he pauses to catch his bearings.

He hears Cap sigh loudly.

“Okay,” Steve concedes. The disappointment is almost tangible, and Peter wonders how Steve doesn’t choke on it like Peter seems to. “Okay. Go shower.”

_Thank you. Oh, thank you god heaven above and hell, thank you._

Cap continues, “We’ll meet you in the kitchen in an hour.” His tone of voice, although gentle, does not allow for argument.

Peter can’t quite keep in the low whine from the back of his throat, but he nods jerkily, pushes open the doors, and bolts down the hall towards the elevator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally written just as a one-shot. The outline now calls for an attack on Avengers tower that leads Peter to make a whole crap-ton of stupid, completely lacking self-worth moves.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! The plot of this story has changed just slightly because I realized the Avengers needed to see how Peter fights with new eyes. Yes, the beginning of this chapter belongs at the end of the last, as it took me a while to work out the storyboard, and I will make this change in a little less than a week, when everyone who’s subscribed has probably read up to date. Thank you for your interest in this story!

Peter is shivering slightly from the cold shower (the tower never runs out of hot water, not with an ARC reactor as its power source, but Peter feels guilty using energy unnecessarily and always turns the water cold after a reasonable 5 minutes) when he creeps into the living room exactly 59 minutes later.

Steve and Natasha are waiting for him with matching stern faces. Peter’s relieved to note he can’t spot a single mark left on Steve’s arms, but he can’t help but grimace at the position they’re in. Steve and Natasha are reminiscent of toy soldiers, standing there spread-legged and arms crossed in the middle of room as they are, positioned for war.

Awesome. An elephant could come through right now and they wouldn’t so much as blink an eye.

“So,” Peter drawls. “What’s up guys?” His attempt at conversation is met with stagnant silence.

Alright, new plan. Casual conversation isn’t working; onto distraction.

“…nice weather we’re having, huh?” Steve and Natasha glace to the left, towards the floor to ceiling windows, where the snow and hail is pelting the glass relentlessly, then back at Peter. Peter gives them a straight, closed lipped smile.

Finally, Steve sighs. “Look, Peter, we have to talk about what happened in there.”

“No we don’t. Steve, we definitely do not, no.” He lifts his hands placatingly in front of him and bobs his head reassuringly.

Natasha rolls her eyes to the ceiling like she’ll find the strength to deal with the both of them there. Peter winces when the movement places her bruises, bruises he gave her, on unobstructed display. “Peter,” she snaps. “We can’t just let this go. Clearly you have a problem.”

Peter whips his head back and forth in denial. “Nah,” he says nonchalantly.

“You can’t just ask us to spar with you to punish yourself!” Steve blurts out. His words are rushed, like he was originally going to say something else, but that he’s reached the cusp of his patience. Steve halfway throws his arms in the air in exasperation before he catches himself, instead pinching the bridge of his nose and remaining silent for Peter to explain.

Peter tucks his head down and bites his lip. Okay, it sounds bad when Steve phrases it like _that._ But it wasn’t his intention to- to _use_ them or anything. “I know, I just-”

“What?”

Peter’s whole body stiffens as he recognizes the voice behind him.

“What did you just say?” Tony repeats, darting around Peter to stand beside Natasha. “Did Steve just say you’re using us to _punish yourself?”_  

“That’s not, umm, that’s not _exactly_ what he meant by-”

“Are you,” Tony enunciates each individual word, “using us to punish yourself.”

Peter’s eyes flicker around the living room, taking in the doorways and windows automatically. He’s trained as Spider-Man for long enough now that it’s reflexive, looking for an escape. It happens before he can tell his brain he’s not _really_ under attack.

Sadly, he finds nothing that will get him out of this conversation.

So instead he slowly drags his gaze to the three Avengers glowering down at him. He opens his mouth to stutter some kind of excuse -some kind of lie-, but an ear-piercing alarm rings through the air instead.

The white florescent lights above them flicker to red and shutters slam down over the windows in the room. JARVIS throws a projection on the wall closest to the four of them that shows a live video feed of the roof of the tower, a roof that is currently swarming with figures dropping out of helicopters.

“Sorry for the interruption, but it appears we have company, Sir,” JARVIS offers unhelpfully.

None of the occupants in the room utter a sound as the siren blares and they watch dozens of figures clad in black force their way through a sliced hole in the roof. They could almost be mistaken as SWAT, if not for the HYDRA insignia plastered on their uniforms.

 “Thanks, J,” Tony replies absently. He runs a hand down his face and points to Peter. “This is not over,” he warns, before turning on his heel. Peter can hear him call for JARVIS to assemble the newest version of the armor as he strides from the room.

Natasha doesn’t waste a second more, disappearing behind Tony in a flash of fiery red hair. Steve pauses longer, momentarily torn between gearing up and concern for Peter, but duty to the rest of the Avengers wins out in the end. He gives Peter a meaningful look before rushing out of the room in the direction of the armory.

Peter lets out a shaky breath. Somehow, he’s managed to avoid the conversation that would undoubtedly end with the revoking of Spider-Man’s Avenger status. His eyelids flutter down in relief, only to fly back open when another shriek of the alarm assaults his sensitive ear drums.

Right, he needs to go suit up; the Tower is under attack.

* * *

 

He swings into Tony’s workshop, fully decked in his Spider-Man suit, less than five minutes after and lands soundlessly beside Bruce. Web slinging to the workshop may possibly have been overkill, but the windows were all sealed with metal shutters, and time was of the essence. He’ll apologize to Tony for the leftover web fluid on the ceiling later.

Peter notices he’s the last one to have arrived, the rest of the Avengers are scattered around the room. Clint and Natasha are in full battle mode, facing the main door and perched on the balls of their feet with weapons gripped tightly in hand. Thor’s in the middle of the room, very carefully not touching anything (after they’d discovered the god of electricity and an electronic workshop do not mix the first day Thor came down here, Thor’s been cautious to touch anything that looks like it could detonate). To Peter’s left, Bruce and Tony are typing away, undeterred focus on the screens in front of them. Steve stands just behind, searching the same screens with scrunched eyes, ready to catch anything the two scientists may miss.

Tony’s workshop resided within the second subfloor of the Avengers Tower, and with the many safety hazards it’s housed and the multiple explosions it faced on the daily, is the most secure place in the tower. It was established ages ago as the meeting place in the event the Tower was ever compromised. Like today.

“JARVIS,” Tony says, right on key, “what’s the update? Why do these goons think it’s okay to touch my Tower?”

“The _HYDRA agents,”_ JARVIS emphasizes the title, ever willing to correct Tony, “appear to be en route to Room 9095.”

Tony freezes. He stops typing and his eyes are blown wide. “Room 9095. Are you sure, J?”

“Affirmative, sir. Their current trajectory shows them headed in a direct route to the sublevels of the Tower.”

Tony chews his check and turns back to the screen he was working on before, his fingers flying over the keys. Peter can hear him mumble curses under his breath.

Steve takes a step closer to Tony, and touches his shoulder before he asks, “JARVIS, what would happen if they reached Room 9095?” 

“That where you stash your childhood Cap memorabilia, Stark?” Clint asks from the other side of the workshop, his tone joking, but his gaze never straying from the door.

Tony ignores them both though, in favor of frantic typing. Peter has enough understanding of Stark programming from helping Bruce and Tony in the lab to understand the coding on screen is activating further security measures along the hallways under the Tower.

“Ah,” Natasha says when it becomes apparent Tony isn’t going to answer, the sarcasm laced in her voice at complete contrast with her tense vigil of the door. “Very little. It just holds the central access to JARVIS’ mainframe. Only control to this entire Tower, most of the Iron Man suits, and access to the full, unredacted files on each one of us.”

“But they _won’t_ reach it. There’s no way. I have so many security systems in place, it’s buried _underneath the tower_ for fuck’s sake!” Peter wishes Tony sounded even slightly more absolute than he does.

JARVIS’ next words are hesitant. “Aided by Doctor Otto Octavius,” the screen above Bruce’s switches to a different live feed and zooms on the supervillain in question, “AKA: Doctor Octopus, I believe they have a reasonably good chance of reaching it.”

Peter’s chest, unnoticed by the rest of the Avengers, begins an arrhythmic convex and concaving at the image onscreen.

Thor frowns and shifts his weight slightly. “Have we faced this Octopus Doctor before? I do not recall engaging in battle with him. What reason does he hold to invade us?”

“Who doesn’t hate us at this point?” Bruce rhetorically questions.

Oh, this is Peter’s cue. Peter can finally chime in something helpful, he knows this one!

“Ah ha,” Peter chokes out. The sound is startlingly close to a cat heaving a hairball. He clears his throat. “Umm, that’s probably my fault.”

Natasha turns to raise an eyebrow at him, and Peter tries his best to push the flashes of Doctor Octavius’ curious face looming over his own, devoid of any compassion as he brings the scalpel down against Peter’s collarbone, out of his head. This isn’t the time for memory lane.

“Doc Ock and I kind of have Tom and Jerry thing going on…except, you know, more lab rat and evil mad scientist hell bent on experimenting on me,” Peter’s hands are only slightly shaking when he throws them up into a _whatcha gonna do_ shrug.

“That’s right,” Bruce says suddenly. “You fought him a year ago.” He hesitates. “You disappeared off the map for weeks after. Everybody had a theory about what happened.”

Peter can see Clint’s eyes flicker over to him, before flashing away.

Peter bites his lip underneath the security of his mask. He’d hoped maybe they wouldn’t know about his past with Doc Ock; most people weren’t paying attention to him back then. Another factor for why he managed to get himself caught that day.

“ _Sir,”_ JARVIS warns. “The intruders have reached level 30.” The same screen JARVIS used to previously show them footage shifts to show HYDRA agents using some kind of laser to cut through the floor with soldier-like efficiency. It explains why they approached from the roof; the only way to reach another level of the Tower is vertically, as the glass of each floor reinforced four times over the strength of the ceilings and floors, and the ground floor is more heavily armed than the White House.

The Avengers watch the screen avidly as the agents seem to completely ignore their surroundings in favor of cutting through to the next. Otto Octavius didn’t aid in the effort at all, instead roaming through each floor and disabling any tech that could be potentially dangerous. There seemed to be more than just disabling the security measures to his actions, though. Peter could swear Octavius seemed to be checking into each room he passed, even if it was only peripherally. Relief floods through Peter that the occupants of the Tower practice immediate evacuation every few months, leaving each floor devoid of civilians.

“Is he…searching for something?” Clint speculated aloud. Peter’s not the only one who noticed, then.

“If he is, he’ll never get the chance to find it,” Steve declares. Thor grins and tightens his grip on his hammer in anticipation. “We need to get up there before they pierce through to the subfloors.”

Oh, Peter digs his hand into a bruise on his thigh in frustration. Steve’s right, what is Peter doing here? He doesn’t know enough to help with the Tower security systems, and he can’t give strategic input like Thor or Clint or Natasha, or delegate like Cap. There was no reason for him to be standing around doing nothing while the Tower- the Avengers’ _home_ \- is getting destroyed!

“I’m not needed here,” Peter reasons with Steve. “Send me. I can distract them, slow them down a little, while you guys come up with a plan.” Peter’s not sure if he’s pleading with Steve to have him go fight, or to tell him that’s foolish with so many enemies up there. Peter’s in no rush to come face to face with Octavius again, his palms grow sweaty just with the thought, but the last thing he wants is to be useless. This way, he has a purpose.

Peter watches Steve contemplate it with crossed fingers. “Okay,” Steve decides, probably coming to the same conclusion as Peter: that Peter is as good as useless here. He turns and gives Peter’s hunched form a quick once over, before asking cautiously, “Do you think you’re up to holding them off? We did just train you pretty hard.” Peter sees Natasha turn to give him the same once over.

Okay, _ouch._ Their lack of faith in him stings. Peter had thought they were _all_ training. But, Natasha and Steve _had_ left the training room only a couple bruises to show, and Peter with a whole gallery. Peter pushes the shame down and nods in what he hopes is a confident action.

“Alright,” Steve concedes. “Go. We’ll be there to back you up as soon as-.”

Peter doesn’t wait for him to finish the sentence. He’s out of the workshop and headed towards the fray before anyone else can second guess his actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short, but I wanted to release the beginning of the story-the part that shows where it's really going (invasion of Tower, Peter doing ridiculously stupid things because he thinks the team doesn't value him, etc) so readers could understand where it's heading. Thank you


	3. Chapter 3

The shutters over the windows block a good portion of the natural light, and with the red alarm lights being his only source, Peter’s swinging half blind. Even with his enhanced vision, he’s only 60% sure he’s swinging (somewhat unsteadily) through the halls in the general direction of an elevator.

A part of him relishes the new experience- Tony never lets him swing through the Tower, always complaining about the webs left behind getting caught in his hair.

The other, much larger, part of him is spooked as heck.

He keeps having to force his eyes away from the windows, reminding himself that it’s probably still daylight out there. He’s not _really_ trapped. Just outside that impenetrable metal shutter lies the sun shining down on his city, and if he can get out of here, he can go see it.

Peter’s relieved when, through the dim flashing lights, he makes out the door to the elevator. He lands smoothly in front of them and reaches out to grip a frame in each hand. The metal crumples uselessly, and Peter winces at the cuts left behind in his flesh. He hisses under his breath at the strain the motion puts on his sore muscles, but continues to wrench the doors apart.

He releases the metal quickly when it’s opened enough to squeeze his lithe body through. Keeping his feet flat against the wall to stay secure, he shakes blood off his hands.

The light from the flashing red alarms doesn’t quite reach the inside enough to be able to see by when Peter leans forward and peers into the gap space, but it’s just enough to glint off the sharp metal bits and pieces placed about on the elevator shaft. Peter can’t immediately see where the actual elevator car is, but it’s irrelevant: this is the only way down to the first floor.

The windows are shuttered shut and although Peter would prefer the slightly-better-lit and very-much-safer staircase, that’s the designated escape route for occupants of the tower, and there’s no way Peter’s risking bringing Doc Oc or Hydra anywhere _close_ to a civilian straggler.

He gathers his bearings, wipes his hands off on his thighs, and starts his climb down the shaft. He’s careful to avoid the jutting parts of the elevator mechanics, forcefully turning thoughts of realizing he’s _voluntarily_ heading towards Doctor Octopus into concentration on his task. It’s harder than it looks to avoid all the sharp mechanics, and several minutes into his journey Peter’s been pricked so many times on his hands he could rival Aurora and her spindle.   

Peter’s not halfway down when a large explosion from below rocks the elevator shaft, hurling Peter straight into a protruding piece of framework. It slices effortlessly through the skin covering his right ribs and snaps off just under. Peter grits his teeth against a whimper and slaps his hands over the wound, waiting for the shaking of the elevator shaft to subside so he can pull the fragment back out.

The reverberating stops, and Peter grips the protruding shard tightly in preparation, but there’s still a faint, jolting scraping sound that’s only getting louder. Peter tilts his head until his ear is angled up towards the noise, and quickly determines the source.

He allows himself one second to close his eyes and slam his head back against the wall in frustration (what Peter wouldn’t give for just _one_ thing to go right, to not mess up just _once_ ), before he springs off the wall and flings himself down the elevator shaft with a speed most Olympic gymnasts would kill for.

The dislodged elevator car screeches after him.

Peter races downward, clumsily bouncing off the sides of the shaft in his rush, sparing no thought to the metal chunk lodged in his side.

He doesn’t hesitate when he sees the end of the elevator, only adjusts his leaps so his feet lead when he crashes through the last set of elevator doors. He rolls to a stop and tucks his head as the air and dust blow out when the elevator cart whips past. The resounding crash of the cart shattering against the ground is near-deafening.

Peter rolls over and doesn’t waste a second more before pulling the invading piece of machinery out of his body. He concentrates on breathing through the sharp pain; the wound had been shallow initially, but his frantic escape had twisted the sharp edges partially into muscle.

Between his throbbing back, his twitching muscles, and the huge gash in his side, Peter thinks maybe he’s okay to lie here forever. Screw stopping the Hydra agents. Screw walking back into Doc Oc’s grasp. He’s just going to stay here and maybe take a nap until everything’s healed up.

A particularly violent jolt of a muscle in his upper back slams his bruised shoulder blades into the ground and gives Peter the motivation he needs to sit up. Using the wall as a crutch, Peter slowly heaves himself off the ground. He uses his web shooters to patch the bleeding gash in his side and a few of the larger cuts he’s gained slamming off the walls in the elevator.

Peter’s done this so often now he’s pretty much a seasoned nurse.

 _Maybe I should take up nursing_ , Peter ponders as he starts his trek into the underground Tower. _It’s gotta pay more than photography does_. _Why have I not tried to do that?_

His side gives a wet squelching sound as he rounds a corner and Peter fights to stay focused in the present as he quickly wipes the blood that drips off before it can trickle down his skin like it did when…before. _Oh yeah, that’s why._

Peter will add **Ruined the possibility to make bank working in the medical field** to the list of ways Doc Oc’s wronged him.

Peter creeps through the hallways under the Tower until he walks into one that looks like it was taken straight out of a war movie, rubble scattered on the ground, rebar poking through the walls, and knows he’s getting close. Doc Oc and company must have set off one of the secondary alarm systems Tony had in place.

Which, Peter realizes now, climbing up onto the ceiling to avoid the wreckage, must also have been the reason for the attempted elevator-murder earlier.

He’s three hallways in when he hears distant voices. Peter crawls closer until he can make out the words, stopping behind a ceiling pillar that obscures him almost entirely.

“…-trol box is right here after all. I thought it would be more secured or something, but whatever.”

“Easier for us,” Peter hears another voice agree. 

Peter pokes his head over the support beam to get a better view, and sees the entire Hydra squad, apparently unharmed by Tony’s booby trap. If he cranes his neck a little, he can just barely make out Doctor Octopus standing to the side, tinkering disinterestedly with a mechanical doohickey of some sort.

“Hey!” A Hydra agent barks suddenly. Peter flinches back and curses himself for being spotted. “Hey!” Peter hears again. He can barely suppress his sigh of relief when it’s followed by, “This is you, Doc.”

Octavius is facing away from him when Peter pops his head back over the beam and doesn’t so much as glance up from his fiddling to reply. “Mmm. No thanks.”

The Hydra agent’s face is covered by the uniform they’re all wearing, but Peter would bet all $7 in his backpack the agent is glaring at Doc Oc under that black mask.

“What do you _mean_ ‘no’,” Hydra agent says lowly.

“I _mean_ ,” Peter hears Doc Oc spit out, and Peter watches his greasy black hair limply fall over his shoulder as Oc tilts his head to glower down at the agent, “I don’t have any interest in having the Avengers on my tail for destroying their precious system.”

“What? That’s the _job_ , Octavius. That’s the only reason you’re here!” Peter can tell the Hydra agent is losing patience with the doc.

The two of them dissolve into an arguing match, and Peter takes the opportunity to readjust in his position. The new arrangement brings Peter’s hips flush against the ceiling, and draws attention to the comm in his hidden front thigh pocket. Peter had sown the secret pouch himself after one-too-many scolding’s from Captain America about not calling when he was in trouble, and he almost smacks himself with the realization.

Tony’s gonna be _pissed_ Peter forgot to have his comm in all this time.

Peter carefully reaches down to his pocket, going slow as to not draw any attention. He gags when his hand slides over a slick splotch of blood left behind on the ceiling from pressing his wounded side into the ceiling, before pulling the comm out and holding it to his ear.

Peter clicks the comm on and prepares himself for the onslaught of Tony, but the sudden noise of seven voices shouting at him causes Peter to fumble the comm, and it slips out of his blood-slicked fingers. Keeping one hand on the ceiling, Peter peels himself off and reaches with his full body to catch the comm. But, despite his best efforts, it bounces off his thigh and rolls off the top of his foot as he tries to catch it, and ultimately falls to the floor, where it lands with a faint _clink_.

Peter curses and pulls himself back up.

Octavius’ head whips sideways at the sound of the comm hitting the floor. His eyes narrow suspiciously.

“-doesn’t matter what you- Hey! Are you even listening to me?”

“What was that?” Doc Oc demands.

The Hydra agent makes a noise of disgust in response. “Stop trying to change the subject!” he yells indignantly.

Octavius doesn’t stop his scanning of the hall. Peter begs to whatever gods Thor may or may not be friends with that Octavius doesn’t look up. His only blessing right now is that Oc doesn’t have his enhanced hearing ability to pick up the faint concerned voices from the comm, and that the rest of the Hydra agents are huddled around the control box on the other side of the room.

Peter can see the bright light from the friction of the sawblade cutting open the metal casing of the control panel from here. He should probably be worried about that, but his main focus right now is the deranged doctor below him.

The agent in charge, apparently with a death wish larger than Peter’s, stomps up to Doc Oc and shoves a finger at his distorted face. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

Peter tenses and waits for the inevitable fight -leave it to Octavius to backstab even when on the evil team- and Octavius, true to form, lashes out with one mechanical tentacle and hits the agent in the stomach, causing him to crash breathlessly to the floor. Peter sympathizes, he knows _exactly_ what that feels like.

Octavius seems unfazed though. He just smirks and turns his gaze back to the room again. Peter crouches even further from where he’s hidden behind the pillar. “I’m here for Spider-Man. I could care less about your pitiful mission.”

Suddenly the comm, which had gone quiet at some point during the exchange, emits a high pitched whine. Doc Oc swivels on a heel- err, a tentacle- and his vulture eyes single out the small piece of tech.

The whirring and systematic clicking of Oc’s tentacles as he crosses the room motivates Peter to press tighter overhead.

Octavius stops just under Peter and picks up the still-screeching comm. He rolls it in his scarred hand for a moment, picking at the soft sides of the machinery, and Peter doesn’t dare to so much as swallow. He’s partially hidden by the support beam, but the ceiling around him is colored red as a target from blood and it would single out the part of his body showing like a neon sign if Octavius were to even slightly look up.

Peter, whose luck’s been the same most his life, watches resignedly as Oc slowly tips his head skyward and meets Peter’s gaze with a perversely ecstatic sneer.

Peter leaps off the ceiling seconds before a metal tentacle crumbles the bloody ceiling.

He uses the downward momentum of his fall to latch a web on another part of the ceiling and catapult across the room, aiming for the rest of the Hydra agents. Peter’s goal is to swing effortlessly into their masses feet first, kicking any in his way to land in the middle, and take out the remaining.

As it is, Peter more or less crashes sideways into a few on the outer rim and bounces off. Four or five of the agents wobble like bowling pins, but the only person to fall to the ground is Peter.

Peter stares wide-eyed up at the agents from the floor. He smiles tight lipped and wiggles his fingers in a parody of a wave. “Hey there. I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’d like to change sides to the good guys? Huh? Maybe?” Peter’s voice is shaky with nerves, he’s never fought this many people at once before, but his offer is kinda sincere.

And apparently not considered, as the agents immediately start advancing on him as one large entity.

Peter sighs and uses his lower position to sweep the feet of several Hydra agents. He climbs up the body of one, needing the extra support to stand himself, and slingshots off his shoulders onto another. Both Hydra agents are stunned by trying to adjust to his weight to stay upright, and Peter uses their momentary lapse to kick them in the head. Both are felled by the motion.

Peter lifts an eyebrow. Huh, it’s a weirdly successful tactic to jump from head to head.

“Down by bank,” Peter starts to sing off-keyedly, leaping onto another Hydra shoulder, “with the hanky-panky-” he downs the agent in one swift knock to the head, before continuing his Frogger-esque bouncing- “Where the bullfrog jumps from bank to banky, with an -EEP!” Peter involuntarily lets out a squeak as he’s ripped from the air by something and pinned to the wall.

The air whooshes out of his chest at the impact, his side aflame in agony around his webbed stab wound, and Peter is left breathlessly tugging at the metal appendage trapping him as Doc Oc saunters up to his face.

“Oh, I’ve missed you little Spider,” Oc coos at him, mere inches from Peter’s face. It’s reminiscent of the way a cat will stare at a person next to them until they get what they want- unblinking eyes and uncomfortably close proximity. Peter’s own face is tilted away. He’d almost forgot the complete lack of personal space Doc Oc maintains. “I’ve almost even missed your snark.”

“I’ve missed you too, Ocky,” Peter quips back. “I’ve missed seeing your face behind bars, where your reeking breath-” Peter turns his head back forward and smiles with much more confidence than he feels “-and rotting skin were nowhere _near_ me.”

Doc’s smirk drops a bit, but he tightens his tentacle claw until Peter’s wheezing, his side on fire.

“That’s no way to talk to an old friend, Spidey. We’re going to have to re-train you in how to be polite again, aren’t we?”

And that’s the magic words, for Peter. At the reminder of what happened… _last time,_ all of his retraint breaks. For the second time that day, Peter’s fighting flashbacks and frantically fighting against his opponent, and it’s nothing like sparring with Natasha and Steve. Peter might have felt overwhelmed then, but he feels completely ineffective against Doc. It’s like the Doc thinks of him as nothing more than a wayward child. His struggles are reprimanded instead of acknowledged.

Doc tightens his claw around Peter’s struggling form and something breaks in Peter’s upper leg, and he can’t quite hold in the scream that follows.

He vaguely hears the comm across the room start up a screech alongside him.

Oc’s laughing at his whimpers. That’s all Peter can understand right now: he’s trapped with Oc again, in the tower he’s come to consider his home.

He doesn’t really register when a red, white, and blue shield comes flying into his view and slams against Oc’s tentacle, but a second after being dropped to the floor, he gathers his bearings and scrabbles away, sucking in breath.

The Avengers stand in the same doorway he came in at earlier, a matching bloodthirsty look in each of their eyes. Peter, favoring his right leg, limps quickly their way.

He passes Hulk, who charges into the room immediately, and crouches on the wall next to the doorway, trying to catch his breath.

Thor touches his shoulder briefly, causing Peter to flinch and sway on his foot, before brushing by and charging out to meet Octavius halfway.

Steve, every the supportive leader, chucks his shield at Oc’s face and sprints after it to back Thor up, not even glancing Peter’s way.

“You okay Peter?” Natasha asks him. Peter is confused; there is an entire room of Hydra agents reconvening around Hulk and the control panel, and Doctor Octavius clinking his way towards Steve and Thor: his health is not the issue at hand. He can fight, and that’s probably what Natasha is asking.

When he glances over at her, Natasha’s looking pointedly at his hurt leg and okay yeah, Peter can see how that extra bend in the middle his shin could cause some alarm, but to be perfectly honest he can’t feel a thing.

“You should have waited, kid,” Tony chides when he realizes Peter’s not going to respond. “No way you could take these many agents on by yourself- did you even think?” He sounds angry, but worse than that he sounds disappointed, and Peter prays his shaking isn’t as evident as he’s pretty sure it is.

“You should have remembered your comms,” Clint concurs sharply. “What kind of rookie move is that? You shouldn’t be out in the field if you can’t follow basic procedure.” Natasha nods once.

Peter’s never more glad for the mask than when Clint says that. His crushed expression is hidden perfectly behind the beloved fabric. Clint’s never been this cold towards Peter. Clint’s supposed to be like the fun uncle, pranking the other Avengers with Peter and getting into food wars with him in the kitchen, not telling him he shouldn’t be a superhero.

A few of the Hydra agents who’ve slipped past Hulk’s field of view are still cutting open the control panel on the other side of the room, and Peter watches distantly as Tony and Clint head to take them out.

Natasha’s the only one of the Avengers still left beside Peter that could potentially witness his falling apart, but it’s far from a blessing; she’s the most observant person Peter’s ever met. If anyone could catch the tremors that wrack through Peter and blood sluggishly oozing out of his reopened wounds to mix with the patterned red of his suit, Natasha can.

But, for all that he’s worrying (and maybe wishing) she’d stay with him, she’s gone by the time Peter forces his eyes (when had they closed?) back open. Peter uncurls his arm that had been wrapped tightly around his aching core and climbs off the wall. His stomach rolls at the blood smears left behind and he forces his teetering feet to lead him back into the fray of the fight.

He watches the Avengers attack the invaders and, aside from webbing a couple of Hydra agents trying to take down Hulk from the backside, there’s not much for him to do. He watches Thor and Steve work in tandem to systematically disable one metal tentacle at a time with swinging hammer and shield. Tony’s flown Clint up to a ledge above the fray, and he’s shooting down arrows into Hydra agents trying to shield the agent cutting into the control box, and Tony’s taking the traditional hand to metal fist combat with the rest of the agents. Peter’s not sure where Natasha is in the fray, but he has no doubt she’s taking down more than her fair share of goons.

Peter settles on his bloody, trembling haunches right there in the middle of the room and watches the battle rage on. Peter’s missing about half of the battle because of his heavy eyelids and slow blinks, but Thor is laughing merrily, and Hulk is more playing with the agents than actually trying to win, and it makes for fairly decent entertainment.

A couple of the agents left break through the Avenger barrier and charge toward Peter, guns blazing, and Peter sighs. He levies himself upright and takes the first agent out with his webs before he’s even reached Peter. The second is on top of Peter faster than Peter can account for, and Peter rolls to the right to avoid the Hydra agents’ precise, deadly fist, and that’s when he sees it.

Out of the corner of his eye he catches Steve and Thor, facing away from Peter, taking out rogue agents that found their way over to Oc’s side of the room. And Doc Oc, carrying himself on two still-functioning mechanical arms, is poised directly behind Steve. A sinister smile contorts his lips as he angles a third tentacle’s claw at Steve’s open back.

Everyone else around the room is busy, and Peter doesn’t know where Natasha is, so Peter allows the Hydra agent he’s fighting against to land a brutal punch to his face. The force of the hit, as he’d expected, knocks him sideways and frees him from the brawl.

Peter’s still thirteen feet away when Doc shifts his body in preparation to stab Steve through the back, and Peter panics. Without through, Peter does what he does best: snark.

“Whoa, Doc. You look really uncomfortable like that. What’s up? You posing for America’s Next Top Model?” Octavius hesitates and curls his lip at Peter.

“Cuz I gotta tell ya, Oc,” Peter continues to taunt, forcing his sore body to keep ambling forward, “if you enter, you ain’t gonna win. They don’t accept hideous, wrinkled monsters.”

Octavius, rather than getting more riled up, turns back to Steve, who’s still oblivious, and readies to strike.

“Come on!” Peter yells a little desperately. “Think this through. You kill Captain America and you’ll have all of the Avengers on your ass.” He sends a silent apology to Steve for the swear and takes another step forward. “But me, I’m expendable. You came here for me, right?” He swallows past the lump in his throat as Octavius meets his gaze with raised eyebrows. “You kill Cap, and the Avengers will take you out before you take another step.

“You kill me, and you walk out of here scot free.”

This _does_ manage to get a reaction out of Octavius, but Peter’s not sure if it’s better or worse than he expected.

“Little Spider,” Octavius says, finally lowering his claw. “You’ve misremembered me. When have I ever wanted you dead.” Peter’s feet tangle in each other as he changes his direction to retreat when Octavius starts clicking his steady way towards Peter.

Peter trips over his own broken leg and lands hard on his elbows, continuing his backwards retreat crawling.

“I don’t want to kill you. I wanted to _fix_ you. I made you _better._ ” Behind Oc, Peter can see Thor turning around. “It’s not my fault you forgot all my lessons.”

Octavius is hovering over Peter’s battered form now, the tips of his greasy hair tickling Peter’s face and his tentacles giving the illusion on bars on all sides. Peter can feel exhaustion in every limb, from training and the elevator injury, Doc mushing his ribs, and every strain since. He’s injured enough that it’s finally getting to him, adrenaline getting washed away by all-encompassing terror, and Peter can do nothing as Doc whips him across the head with a metal limb.

Everything that follows is blurry. Peter feels himself being lifted, the weightless sensation making him nauseous. He hears what he thinks is Thor’s voice, calling out to the other Avengers, and listens the whine of Tony’s repulser go off a few times.

He makes out a burst of vibrant red and black and feels himself free-fall for a couple seconds before being re-caught by that hard thing again and squeezed. He’s pretty sure it would hurt if he could feel it.

In Oc’s grasp, Peter is carried across the room. He recognizes the control panel box when it stops in his view, and is impressed by the lack of damage the Hydra saw made. Until Oc simply reaches out a reinforced metal appendage and slashes through the casing of JARVIS’ control box like it’s butter.

Oh, Tony’s going to be pissed. Peter hopes he doesn’t get blamed for that.

Peter’s body flops around bonelessly in Oc’s grasp as Oc bolts to towards the exit. Peter catches the Avenger’s angry faces briefly as they whirl by, and then they are obscured by an avalanche of rock.

Octavius lifts Peter up to his face like he’s a rag doll and bears his teeth at Peter. “See what happens when you forget your lessons?” Some flyaway spit flecks onto Peter’s face. “I have to punish them when you disobey. You know that.”

Octavius twists Peter so he comes face to face with the wall of rock now entombing the Avengers.

Peter isn’t entirely sure if Oc’s the one saying it, or if it’s just rebounding his own head, but the world around him moves in beat to a mantra of _“this is your fault.”_

Peter stays conscious as Octavius moves through the many hallways back through the underbelly of the Tower, and the last thing Peter makes out is the destroyed elevator below him as they climb up the shaft, before his skull is ricocheted carelessly off the elevator wall.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the late update. I've been incredibly sick for over a month. I have a surgery scheduled for Wednesday that should help.  
> If you see any grammar mistakes, please let me know! This was more impromptu than I wish it was, but I thought anything is better than nothing.  
> Next chapter is Torture! Hooray!

**Author's Note:**

> Also, if you like this at all, I have another story with a very similar dynamic (except guys it's actually EDITED and is a finished, complete story). Featuring self-depreciation Peter and whump and misunderstandings. And accidental anorexia. It's called "Consequences to Every Inaction"


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